Winter Blues (Reds, and Golds...)

There is beauty in the stillness of a winter landscape.  As if overnight, Autumn’s warm tapestry is transformed into dichromatic layers of black and white.  The long, arching shadows of branches and vines contrast with the glittering snow and sky.  Sounds become muffled, absorbed by the white hills of insulation and whipped away on the breeze.  From frosted meadows to dense, tangled thickets, there is a hushed feeling of isolation—eery, yet somehow calming.  Time stands still in the winter woods; a pause may only last a second, an hour, a year.  A spell only broken by the crunching of ice under boots.

Winter Footprints...

Truth be told, I meet winter with mixed emotions.  All too often, I look past the beauty before me, imagining the warmth a few more months will bring.  It’s easy to get caught up in this waiting game.  I’ll go out when its warmer, or maybe when its sunnier.  Time passes and I never stop to appreciate all that winter has to offer.  I dream of days catching snakes, mornings of birdsong and activity, nights spotlighting salamanders and listening to the chirps of katydids.  But this is only half the picture; nature doesn't stop once the reptiles have taken shelter and the warblers have migrated to southern climates.  A whole host of characters, stories, and secrets are waiting to be shared with the persistent observer.  

For the past several weeks, I have spent the evening hours at The Ridges, a research land lab owned by Ohio University (it’s also an old asylum, but more on that in a later post).  The Ridges provide a diversity of habitats for many of Ohio’s winter residents.  Last year, most of my spare time was spent hiking its trails and exploring the ravine bottoms and hilltops.  Just a short walk from campus, The Ridges provide a welcome escape from the bustle and stress of college life.  I am always surprised how few students use or even know about the ridges.  I hardly ever see anyone else during my walks—just me and the birds. 

The calmness of the woods is just an illusion, however.  The creatures here live their lives as franticly as I live my own.  Their winter chores can be watched silently from below as they gather food, hunt prey, chisel homes, and defend territories.  This is a world I feel privileged to view, if only at a distance.  Stepping off the brick road and onto the dirt path, I am greeted by the disapproving chuck-chuck of a gray squirrel, its sharp scolding notes ringing in my ears.

As I trudge through the snow, it becomes painfully obvious how out of place I am among the trees.  I can’t help but leave behind an arrow of footprints—a map of my movements across the blank landscape.  The birds, meanwhile, leave nothing but feathery imprints as they whisk seeds from the trail and insects from beneath shelves of bark.  All the creatures here are well aware of my presence, try as I might to mimic their stealth.  I have come to accept that I will never be as covert as the trotting coyote or as mindful as the roosting owl. 

Much of my time in the woods is spent seeking.  The biologist in me is constantly trying to find some new curiosity to document and describe.  There is always some behavior to witness first hand, or a species to identify in my field guide.  Many of my most sublime moments in nature, however, have been spent without any set goal in mind.  Allowing the twists in the trail, the whistling of birds, or the lengthening rays of late evening light to direct my wanderings have revealed what the hurried seeker would almost certainly miss.  

This is a more spiritual side to viewing nature; a side I often neglect for the thrill of the search.  This deep connection to the natural world is what got me hooked on wildlife as a boy.  It’s what gets me up in the morning and makes me grin with anticipation every time I open my window blinds to reveal the trees awash in morning sunshine.  

Hiking the same trail time and time again is never boring.  If it is, I know I am not paying attention, for no two trips through the woods are ever the same.  Getting to know a patch of wilderness allows an observer to feel in tune with the minute changes that each day brings.  I like to notice the little things.  A snapped branch from one day to the next helps key me in to the movements and behaviors of the woodland creatures.  The chiseled bark around a small cavity could mean a woodpecker is taking up residence.  A lone pellet in the snow might be the only clue that a great horned owl is hunting the fields by night.  Signs of life all too easily overlooked.  

Some winter creatures make no efforts to conceal themselves.  The chipper bluebirds are always a welcome sight.  Males display the most brilliant colors, while the females are a dapper shade of gray and blue.  Finding the open fields and woods at The Ridges to their liking, my little flock of bluebirds have chosen to stick around for the winter months.  In spring, spotting just one of these elegant birds would mean that a dozen or more of the royal blue thrushes would soon be flitting through the trees all around me.  Now in late January, all but a handful have migrated south.

Bluebirds fly remarkably low, gleaning insects from the ground and popping up in nearby branches to ponder my presence with a slight tilt of the head.  They have developed a fondness for human habitation wherever we provide them with nest boxes and open space. I delight in their company; they have such character.

Knowing the local birds makes a silent walk along the trails akin to visiting an old friend.  If the woods appear empty at first glance, simply stop and wait.  The birds will quickly reveal their winter activities, twittering joyously as they squabble over seeds.  No winter resident is more striking than a male northern cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis).  These familiar birds (the state bird of Ohio) can be found in abundance even on campus.  That thick bill is used to crack their favorite treats: seeds, nuts, and berries.  Cardinals do not molt into dull winter plumage, making their red splendor all the more inviting during this bleak time of the year.  When temperatures drop, cardinals form large flocks with other bird species including junkos, titmice, and sparrows.

Weighing less than a hummingbird, the golden-crowned kinglet (Regulus satrapa) is truly a tiny creature.  These birds fearlessly hop about the frozen understory, uttering a tree-tsee-tsee call as they check every nook and cranny for hidden insect larvae.  These migrants from the high arctic spend the breeding season in Canada's boreal forests and the winter in our own backyards. Despite their small size, golden-crowned kinglets can survive temperatures well below 0 degrees Fahrenheit.  On truly frigid nights, kinglets huddle together for warmth under the swooping branches of large conifers. When working a particular tree for their insect prey, these birds are in perpetual motion—often breaking off to zip after one another as they compete for the best feeding spots.

To appreciate the richness of the winter woods, one must leave behind the warm confines of home.  Let nature's frozen splendor wash over you and guide you along her trails.  They don't have to be man-made, deer footprints will do.  Winter is a time to take stock, to regroup, to think and reflect.  Her frozen earth and icy ponds hold an energy—spring thaw is never far away.  

Enjoy the little things before they are gone. 

Hakalau: Land of Many Perches

On my final day in Hawaii I woke early, packed my camera equipment and hiking gear, and headed for mile marker 28 on Saddle Road.  I was on my way to (hopefully) see some of Hawaii’s rarest and most endangered native bird life.  Hawaii is often referred to as the “bird extinction capital of the world.”  While it is true that Hawaii has lost over 65% of its native avifauna, I would soon learn that the real story is much more complex.

Had the HMS Beagle visited Hawaii on its voyage around the world, we might today read about Darwin’s honeycreepers in place of his finches.  The extent of adaptive radiation of Hawaiian birds puts the Galapagos archipelago to shame.  At least 56 species of unique honeycreepers evolved from a single ancestral finch-like bird that made it to the islands approximately 5.5 million years ago.  Each bird adapted to fill a specific niche, evolving a vast diversity of bill shapes and sizes.  There are nectar feeders with long, curved proboscises, insect hunters with small, sharp warbler bills, seed eaters with the thick bills of grosbeaks, and even a honeycreeper that feeds like a woodpecker.

No native reptiles, amphibians, or land mammals (except for a bat) colonized Hawaii.  Without competition or threat from land dwelling predators, the birds flourished.  Once humans made it to the islands, however, that would all change.  The first Polynesians wiped out many of the ground dwelling and flightless birds.  Upon European arrival, the extinction rate increased exponentially.  Habitat loss coupled with invasive species and diseases served the final blow.

Today, only 18 species of honeycreeper survive.  Gone too, are the giant ducks, the stilt owls, the flightless rails, and many of the other endemic Hawaiian bird species.  The introduction of tropical mosquitos has wiped out native birds living in lower elevations.  The mosquitos carry and transmit avian malaria from introduced birds.  Pristine mountain forests above the mosquito line provide the final stronghold for Hawaii’s honeycreepers.  

I booked a tour with biologist and bird photographer Jack Jeffery to visit one of these final strongholds: a rainforest known as the Hakalau Forest National Wildlife Refuge.  I parked at our meeting destination, the Pu'u Huluhulu Hunter Check Station, right at the base of Mauna Kea.  Jack greeted me with a broad grin and a firm handshake and introduced me to the three other members of the tour group.  A knowledgeable and charismatic individual, Jack proved to be as fascinating as the birds he studies.  Always quick with a joke or bad pun, his voice swelled with appreciation and respect for the island’s wildlife.  

Originally from the East Coast, Jack moved to Guam to earn his biology degree.  On a holiday to Hawaii, he fell in love with the state and “never looked back.”  For 18 years, he worked as Hakalau’s first Wildlife Biologist.  He holds many awards in photography and conservation, including Conservationist of the Year from the Audubon Society and the Sierra Club.  Today, he takes eager birders and photographers to search for Hawaii’s remaining endemic bird life.  If you want to go birding in Hawaii, Jack is the guy to contact.  You can visit his website at jackjeffreyphoto.com.

We all packed into Jack’s four wheel drive jeep and headed up the slopes of Mauna Kea.  Jack provided us with a pamphlet of Hakalau birds that would serve as a handy field guide.  He walked us through each of the species, describing their identifying characteristics, behaviors, and habitats.

“150 years ago, this would have all been forest,” Jack said, indicating the low shrubby hills that seemed to stretch on forever.  Before Europeans introduced cattle, pigs, and sheep, the landscape would have been dominated by native trees like koa and ōhiʻa.  Once the forests were stripped for pasture, the landscape would never be the same.  Wild pigs and cattle still roam, but the land has been taken over by another european invasive: gorse (Ulex europaeus).  This low shrub, with its pretty yellow flowers, chokes out anything that tries to grow, preventing native forests from reclaiming the land.  Seeds can remain viable for over 50 years, and the plants are resistant to fire, making gorse nearly impossible to remove.

The Hakalau Forest NWR is a step back in time.  Created in 1985 specifically to conserve the birdlife residing there, Hakalau spans some 38,000 acres.  It was spared most of the ravaging onslaught of livestock, and still retains much of its old growth forests.  Pig and cattle-proof fences, together with intensive management, have helped to keep this forest as pristine as possible.  At 6,500 feet, Hakalau provides a refuge from mosquitos and the diseases they carry.  Here, bird populations aren’t just stable, they are likely increasing.  Six of the seven extant honeycreeper species living on the big island call Hakalau home.

Nonnative game birds like California quail and ring-necked pheasant dashed across the dirt road as we approached the forest.  I scanned the surrounding fields in hopes of spotting a pueo or Hawaiian short-eared owl.  Skylarks and golden plovers were everywhere, flitting out of our way at the last second.  As we entered the preserve I was blown away by the view.  The peak of Mauna Kea rose above the landscape like a stone goddess.  Recent storms had frosted her summit in snowy white; a dramatic touch to an already beautiful landscape.

There to greet us were half a dozen Nene (pronounced nay-nay) or Hawaiian geese (Branta sandvicensis).  I hopped out of the jeep and immediately started photographing.  Something about the scene felt so familiar.  I was thousands of miles from home, and yet could be photographing Canada geese in my own backyard.  The Nene is a fascinating story in itself.  The state bird of Hawaii, these geese were nearly wiped out by the 1950s.  Thanks to conservation efforts, they are making a comeback.  Eggs and nestlings are still under threat from a host of invasive predators like the Indian mongoose, making their continued survival anything but certain.

Before hiking into the trees, the four of us gathered around Jack for a final run through the field pamphlet.  He reiterated what to look and listen for.  Most importantly, he explained that a pair of ʻakiapōlāʻau (ah-kee-ah-POH-LAH-OW), the rarest hawaiian honey creeper at the refuge, had recently raised a fledgling.  The young are easier to find due to their unmistakable chipping call.  “If we hear the call of the aki,” Jack deadpaned, “we’re running to it.” 

Rainforest gives the wrong impression of what the Hakalau is like.  Nothing about this refuge was dense or tangled; instead of thick vines and huge drooping leaves and musty flowers, this forest was composed of enormous gnarled ōhiʻa and lichen covered koa, cleanly spaced apart like trees in an arboretum.  Their branches grew in low swooping arches, bringing the canopy down to just above our heads.  Golden light shown through the layers of tree cover, allowing a thick understory of ferns and knee high grasses to grow.  I would later learn that in Hawaiian, Hakalau means “many perches” referring to the sinuous network of the branches here.  

The koa (Acacia koa) is the largest native Hawaiian tree, reaching over 150 feet in height.  Jack explained that as saplings, these trees grow pinnately compound leaves not unlike the fronds of a fern.  As the trees age, the leaves broaden to form whole distinctive sickle-shaped leaves.  Many birds, including the ʻakiapōlāʻau (Hemignathus munroi)  rely on this tree for their sole source of food.

Endemic to the 6 largest islands, the beloved ōhiʻa (Metrosideros polymorpha) is Hawaii’s most common native tree.  Its specific epithet, polymorpha, refers to the many forms this tree can take.  Neighboring ōhiʻa can look like entirely different species, exhibiting different growth patterns and a variety of leaf shapes.  Extending from sea level all the way up to tree line on volcanic slopes (some 8,200 feet) ōhiʻa is one of the most resilient of Hawaiian trees.  It paves the way for other plant species on new lava flows by laying down the first layer of sediment as it decays.  Large trees, 80 feet tall and 6 feet in diameter, can be upwards of 500 years old, making them some of the oldest living angiosperms (flowering plants) on earth.

The ōhiʻa’s distinctive red blossom is an important food source for many nectar feeding insects and birds.  Legend tells of the fire goddess Pele transforming a young warrior into the ōhiʻa tree and his lover into its lehua flower.  If the lehua is ever plucked, it is said the sky will begin to rain from grief. 

Immediately, we were awash in bird song.  Melodic warbles, metallic caws, ascending whoops, and squeaky wheels filled the air.  An ‘ōma‘ō  (O-ma-O) or Hawaiian thrush (Myadestes obscurus) landed a short distance from us and began calling its R2-D2-like series of tweets and squeaks.  We had stepped into another world, alive with sound and flashes of color as vibrant birds began to appear all around us.

The very first honey creeper we encountered was the ʻiʻiwi (ee-EE-vee) or scarlet honeycreeper (Vestiaria coccinea).  Jack calls them, “the poster child for Hawaiian honeycreepers.”  This was one of the main birds I had hoped to find, and we didn't just see one.  By the end of the trip, we had seen or heard some 50 individuals!  Hakalau is the only place on Hawaii where ʻiʻiwi are more plentiful than the `apapane (Apa-pan-EE)—the most common honeycreeper on the island.

Darting from one tree to the next, the ʻiʻiwi were more common than the chickadees at my local bird feeder, and nearly as tame.  They were incredibly trusting, allowing me to creep within a few feet for photographs.  With their brilliantly red-orange bodies and black wings and tail, they reminded me of scarlet tanagers, though a bit smaller.  When one individual popped out from the thick tangles of brush and landed inches from my nose, I could barley breath.  A comically large, down-curved bill protruded from the bird’s face.  This marvelous adaptation has coevolved with a species of flowering mint that has become just as sickle-shaped.  ʻIʻiwi are also one of the most important pollinators of the ōhiʻa tree.

Suddenly, Jack stopped, turned and pointed down the trail.  “That’s the aki!  Lets move.”  The five of us half jogged, half ran in the direction the aki had called from.  I can only imagine how ridiculous we looked to the forest birds watching from above.  

“There it is,” Jack said, pointing to a small koa.  It was the young aki, hammering away with its lower bill in the characteristic woodpecker feeding style.  “It’s a bit of a miracle that the ʻakiapōlāʻau survives at all,” Jack said.  There are only around 800 individuals left in existence.  These birds are endemic to the big island, where they persist only above mosquito line in high elevation koa forests.  They feed on long-horned beetle larvae that live only within the decayed wood of mature koa trees.  Aki have one of the largest home ranges and the longest parental care of any passerine—laying a single egg once every two years.  

The little aki, however, didn't seem at all concerned with the peril of its species.  It happily pecked away at the bark, using its long, curved upper mandible to reach inside the cavities it had just pecked.  Its feeding style reminded me of the Madagascan eye-eye, a bizarre species of lemur that uses a thin middle finger to pry grubs from trees.  The little, yellow bird allowed excellent views for over 5 minutes, before it decided to fly off.

I was stunned by the carefree nature of the birds here.  Evolving without native land predators meant they had no natural instinct to fear us.  Jack rattled off the scientific names of native and invasive plants left and right.  Every tree, every clearing, nearly every branch and little patch of foliage had a story.  His years of photographing and exploring this forest had brought him dozens of once in a lifetime encounters with Hawaii’s rarest birds.  He even showed us the exact spot where over 20 years prior, the BBC had filmed a segment for David Attenborough’s Life of Birds.  

As we hiked on, the bird diversity only grew richer.  We spotted a few introduced species, like the Japanese white-eye, but most were natives.  An `io (EE-O) or Hawaiian hawk (Buteo solitarius) wheeled overhead.  These hawks are some of the few bird predators native to the island.  They come in a light and dark morph; the individual overhead was a rich chocolate brown.  Like many of Hawaii’s avifauna, it was once nearly extinct, but is now seen in larger numbers on the big island of Hawaii.  

Jack pointed out a little, yellow bird with a dark mask creeping up a tree.  “An amakihi (Ama-kee-hee),” he identified.  The multipurpose bill of the amakihi (Hemignathus virens) allows it to feed on nectar, fruits, berries, and insects.  They are a common honeycreeper, found even below the mosquito line.  

“Here's another one,” Jack said, “see how its almost creeper like.”  We all looked closer.  “Wait,” Jack corrected, “that isn't the same bird.”  It was in fact an endangered Hawaii creeper (Oreomystis mana), similar in appearance to the amakihi but with a white throat and a more “racoony” mask.  These little honeycreepers feed like nuthatches, plodding methodically up trees to check under bark for insects.  

Little flocks of `apapane (Himatione sanguinea) zipped through the forest in single file lines—several males courting a skittish female.  These ʻiʻiwi lookalikes are brilliant red, but lack the huge orange bill.  Instead, they feed on nectar with a thin black, curved beak.  They can easily be told apart from ʻiʻiwi in flight by their white rumps.

All of a sudden, a little brown bird with an upturned tail danced into view.  The little forest sprite was a native species of monarch flycatcher (Chasiempis sandwichensis) known as the Hawaii `elepaio (Ele-pie-O).  It hopped about, uttering a series of ascending wheep-wheep calls as if inviting us to chase after it.  The cute, brown and cinnamon bird entertained us with its playful nature for several minutes.  It stayed in very close proximity to the trail, never perching in one spot for more than a few seconds.  

The only honeycreeper species at the refuge we didn't lay eyes on was the endangered ʻakepa (Ah-kep-Ah) (Loxops coccineus).  Jack pointed out its soft twittering call a few times, but we never got close enough to actually see the little bird.  ʻAkepa are the smallest of Hawaii's honeycreepers and the only remaining species to nest in tree cavities.  "At 9 grams, you could fit 3 in an envelope and mail them to your cousin for the price of a forever stamp," Jack joked.  Male birds are a brilliant shade of orange while females are greenish gray.  They have a unique crossed bill used to pry open leaf buds to feed on microlarvea.  

After almost 9 hours of birding, we headed back down the mountain; I had a flight to catch in a few hours.  Truth be told, I wasn't at all ready to leave.  I easily could have spent an entire week doing nothing but exploring that little patch of Hakalau forest.  Birding with Jack was one of the coolest things I have ever done.  Writing this post in frigid, snowy Ohio (this morning it is 9 degrees), I can feel the ʻiʻiwis calling me back.  Hiking through the forested mountainside was a surreal experience; I sometimes wonder whether it was just a dream.  The remarkable birds that call Hakalau home still dance in my mind every time I close my eyes.  I hope to one day soon return to Hawaii to visit these birds again.  Finding the illusive, orange ʻakepa and the finch-billed palila (PAH-lee-lah) (Loxioides bailleui), restricted to the dwindling dry mamane forests on the slopes of Mauna Kea, are at the top of my list.  

An old Hakalau Research Building 

My urgency to see the remaining honeycreepers might not be misplaced.  Less than 10 years ago, the great, ancient ōhiʻa trees began dying all over the island.  The culprit, a newly discovered human-transported fungus soon to be known as ROD, or rapid ōhiʻa death.  The fungus blocks the tree’s vascular system, starving them of water and nutrients.  Healthy trees that have grown for generations die within 3 weeks of showing symptoms.  With over 60,000 acres already impacted, this fungus could wipe out over 90% of Hawaii’s forests within 10 years.  Hakalau is closed to the public, except for guided tours, to prevent the spread of this deadly disease.  Jack takes special precautions, sterilizing equipment and hiking boots with a solution of rubbing alcohol.  

If ROD wasn't enough, the mosquitos that exterminated Hawaii's honeycreepers from low elevations are beginning to adapt to higher climate zones.  There is some evidence that a few honeycreeper species are beginning to develop immunity, but their time is short.  Climate change has already warmed the islands enough for mosquitos to expand their range.  In coming years, the birds are likely to be pushed higher and higher up their mountain slopes.  With no forests, and nowhere to go, the honeycreepers could be at the end of the line.  

Hawaii hosts 33% of threatened or endangered birds listed under the endangered species act, and yet, receives only 5% of federal funding for conservation initiatives.  With human intervention and education, we can save these remarkable birds.  The American Birding Association has recently inducted Hawaii into the ABA birding checklist.  The ʻiʻiwi was chosen as the Bird of the Year, representing all of Hawaii's diverse and beautiful bird life.  This much needed public exposure will hopefully fuel more mainland birders to protect Hawaii's birds as their own.  Take it from me, they are worth it.  

Black Sand and Green Seas

The childhood dream to swim alongside a sea turtle is shared by all who grew up fascinated by wildlife.  Perhaps it is the nomadic nature of these sea fairing transients that seems to tie the world’s ecosystems together.  These reptiles can be found in oceans worldwide, from Alaska's Gulf Coast to the shores of Florida, Hawaii, Guam, Australia, and beyond.  Like the polar bear, African elephant, or kangaroo, sea turtles are a landmark species.  Anyone—wildlife enthusiast or not—can recognize a sea turtle.  They are icons of nature’s untamed beauty, as well as its fragility in the face of environmental atrocities.  They teach us to appreciate what we have, and to protect all that we stand to lose. 

Most people will only ever read about sea turtles in books or watch them on film. The idea of a 1,500 pound leatherback, hauling itself through the sea at over 20 miles per hour, or the prospect of hundreds of thousands of Olive Ridleys coming ashore to nest in a famed arribada, seem almost too fantastic to be true.  Turtles tease us with the wisdom of time itself, locked away in their boney shells.  They are immortalized in our pop culture in the form of logos, T-shirts, and children’s movies.  There is perhaps no creature so familiar, and yet so mysterious; for we know little of the daily lives of these sea-fairing giants. 

As a young boy, I remember curling up on the couch with my parents to watch our nightly episode of The Crocodile Hunter.  Steve and Terry Irwin introduced my generation to the world of wildlife.  The imagery of Steve coaxing an elderly and emaciated green sea turtle into an Australian harbor has never left me.  The khaki-clad duo didn't interfere with the aging reptile; they admired it for its tenacity and allowed nature to take its course.  Every child who watched their show dreamed of wildlife encounters, and longed to chase adventures on far off islands.

Click to enlarge.

This past December, I had the chance to visit the big island of Hawaii.  After spending all day on a plane, I had to pinch myself to check that I wasn't still a daydreaming eight-year-old.  This was my first time to the Aloha state and I had little idea what to expect.  Tracking down some of Hawaii’s rare and endemic wildlife was the first thing on my mind.  Sitting over 2,000 miles from the nearest mainland, Hawaii’s isolation makes it a laboratory for evolution.  Few plants or animals made it to the island; there are no native land dwelling reptiles, amphibians, or mammals (except for a bat).  Those (likes birds and drosophila flies) that did make it to Hawaii’s rocky shores, diversified into countless species.

Hawaii is the most isolate archipelago on earth.  This chain of volcanic islands spans 1,500 miles across the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  Hawaii’s highest mountain Mauna Kea rises over 33,000 feet from sea floor to summit, making it taller than Mount Everest.  The Hawaiian chain was born from a magma hotspot that has been pushing up through the ocean floor for millions of years.  As the pacific plate drifts northwest (at about the same rate finger nails grow), the hotspot continues to spit out new volcanic islands, while older, extinct volcanoes sink under their own weight.  Today, 8 main islands and over a hundred smaller islands make up the Hawaiian chain.

One creature that had no trouble finding its way to the islands was the Honu, the Hawaiian name for the green sea turtle (Chelonia mydas).  Sea turtles can travel thousands of miles across the ocean as they move from feeding grounds to breed.  Five species of sea turtles are known to frequent Hawaii’s waters, but only the green is seen with any regularity.  These gentle giants feed on seaweed, jellyfish, and crustaceans around Hawaii’s shores.  Few turtles actually nest on the main islands; most lay their eggs on the French Frigate Shoals—a tiny island in the Hawaiian chain, comprised of only 67 acres.

During the first few days of the trip, we had no luck finding these apparently common reptiles.  After striking out at several beaches, we decided to drive to Punalu’u, one of the best known black sand beaches in the world.  The black sand is actually hardened lava rock from the nearby Volcanoes National Park. Lava spewed into the sea by Kīlauea, one of the most active volcanoes on earth, is pulverized into a fine, black sand.  Green sea turtles are a common visitor to Punalu’u along with the occasional hawksbill sea turtle.  Upon arriving at the beach, I wasn't disappointed.

Like a smooth, rounded stone that had been weathered by the ocean surf, the turtle’s carapace glistened the same shade of black as the sand.  Huge, wrinkled eyelids hung slackly over fist-sized eyes.  Oblivious to the gawking beach-goers, the turtle slept, only moving to lift its head above the occasional wave.  Like a painted turtle soaking up sun rays on a log, this sea-fairing behemoth was thermoregulating.  Hawaii, Australia, and the Galapagos are the only places on earth where green sea turtles come ashore to bask.  Most green turtles, along with other sea turtle species, never leave the water except to nest.  They bask at the ocean’s surface, using patches of seaweed to stay buoyant.  

It isn't fully understood why some sea turtles bask on land while others do not.  Basking helps kick start the metabolism, aiding digestion and improving the immune system.  Egg development may be another benefit, but since both male and female turtles can be seen ashore, this isn't the whole story.  Seasonal fluctuations in the number of beach baskers points toward water temperature as a deciding factor.  Scientists have found that when sea temperatures are below 23°C the turtles are more inclined to come ashore.  February through April provide the best chances to see turtles hauled up on the beach.

Most reptiles are not thought to be social, and the same holds true for sea turtles.  However, green turtles often bask in close proximity to one another rather than spreading out.  Large, off-shore congregations are also common during the breeding season.  As I moved down the beach, I came across three more of the huge turtles, all within a few feet of one another.  With shell lengths of a meter or more, these were the largest wild turtles I had ever seen.  Their huge flippers sunk into the black sand like leathery wings.  Not your ordinary, everyday box turtle.

As global sea temperatures rise, land basking may be on the decline.  The waters around Hawaii are increasing by 0.04°C per year—three times higher than the global average.  By 2039, Hawaii’s waters will be permanently warm enough to sustain ocean basking.  By the century’s end, sea temperatures around the world will have warmed beyond the land basking threshold.  With the benefits of land basking still shrouded in mystery, it is unclear what warmer temperatures will do to sea turtle ecology. 

6 of the 7 sea turtle species are listed as endangered.  Like many of Hawaii's native wildlife, the green sea turtle was almost wiped out by the mid-1900s.  Their name comes not from the color of their skin (which is usually brown), but from the green shade of their fat and cartilage.  These turtles were exploited for their meat, shells, and eggs for centuries.  The federal government established protection for these turtles in the 1970s making it illegal to hunt, harass, or even touch these giants.

Despite protection, sea turtles still face a host of threats.  The illegal wildlife trade destroys countless nests for sale to foreign markets.  Adult turtles are illegally harvested for their meat and their leathery skin is used to create commodities.  Human development of important turtle nesting beaches and degradation of the ocean through pollution are also major problems for marine wildlife. 

Found in sea turtles the world over, fibropapillomatosis or FP is a herpes virus thought to be linked to pollution.  This disease causes enormous cauliflower-shaped tumors to develop on the turtles’ skin and internal organs.  FP obstructs vision and locomotion, making turtles vulnerable to predation.  Despite being first observed in the 1930s, this disease is still poorly understood. 

Possibly the greatest threat to sea turtles is being accidentally caught by fishing vessels.  Turtles that become trapped or entangled in nets often drown and are thrown back as bycatch.  Fisheries may discard as much as 40% of their catch as undesirable.  Turtles are not the only creatures to fall victim to these snares.  Sea birds, dolphins, sharks, and seals are common victims of bycatch. To learn more about threats to sea turtles and things you can do to help save them, visit seeturtle.org. 

As an aspiring turtle researcher, getting to see wild sea turtles at the black sand beach was a thrill.  I even had the chance to snorkel with two huge individuals.  They carelessly drifted past me with the bulk and grace of an armored submarine.  I tried to keep a respectful distance, but the turtles often swam towards me faster than I could retreat.  They didn't seem to mind my presence, or even take much notice as they munched away at algae-covered rocks.  

As I looked closer at one of the huge reptiles, I noticed something odd near the front of the animal's shell.  It was a white, rectangular patch of epoxy.  Could it be the remnants of a radio transmitter?  I stood there speechless for several moments, paralyzed by the coincidence. It didn't seem possible, but halfway across the world I was seeing an echo of my own Ohio box turtles in this huge prehistoric sea creature.  These endangered marine reptiles have given me a new perspective and an even greater appreciation for wildlife conservation and research. Perhaps some day I'll be the one tracking them.

Next on my list: Hawaii's endangered native forest birds.